


Ravana's Children

by BrigidsBlest



Series: Into Thin Air [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrigidsBlest/pseuds/BrigidsBlest
Summary: Crossover between X-Files and Kolchak: The Night Stalker.





	1. Chapter 1

**July 31, 1994; Chicago**

 

            Nicole Alexander lifted the last of the old books out of the UPS carton they had come in and blew a thin film of dust off the cover. The faded gold lettering picked out a title in German that she couldn't read, much less translate, and she set it aside gently before gathering up the discarded wrappings and tossing them into the trash. Her eyes were distant as she stripped off the latex gloves she wore when handling the old books and carefully noted down the book's title and the author's name in the main ledger. Dust motes danced in the air around her and she glanced over at the front door of the old bookstore, half-expecting the bell over it to ring again at least once before she locked up for the night.

            A long, echoing creak sounded from behind her and she turned, then smiled at the balding, watery-eyed old man that stood there. "I've finished logging the new shipment we got in from Broder's Books, Saul," she murmured, closing the ledger and setting it up on its shelf. "I'm going to lock the older books up in the empty display case and shelve the others before I count the register down for the night."

            "That's fine, Nicki," the older man breathed. A faint shadow flitted across his face and he rubbed his hands together, grimacing. "Can you lock up on your own tonight? My arthritis is acting up and I want to go home to Judith; she's making chicken for supper and I'd hate to miss that. I don't like to kvetch, but--"

            Nicole laughed gently. "Sure," she chuckled. "Go on home and get some rest; take some aspirin for your hands. Tell Judith hello for me and I'll lock up and see you in the morning."

            "You're a good girl, for a _shiksa_ ," Saul sighed. She watched as he pulled on the light sweater he wore to work every morning--even though it was summer--and trudged out the door. Then she went back to what she had been doing, arranging the older books in the display case and shelving the newer ones. The store's old wooden floor creaked under her feet as she carried the last set of books back to its shelf in the section dealing with Jewish legends and mysticism, then locked the front door, put up the CLOSED sign, and counted down the drawer from the cash register. The money went into the safe and she grabbed her backpack and the trash before letting herself out and locking the front door. She marched around the side of the old brick building and tossed the trash into the dumpster, then headed for the EL station a few blocks away.

            Roosevelt Heights was a section of Chicago that had seen better days-- _but_ , Nicole mused, _at least I don't have to worry about government stooges tracking me down here._ The neighborhood had once been populated by upper-middle-class families, but things had gone downhill since the 60's and the people who lived there now were exclusively old, most of them living on pensions and Social Security checks. Nicole sighed as she walked past a boarded-up Mom-n-Pop grocery store and a Hindu restaurant with a 'CONDEMNED' sign nailed up over the front door. She had carefully hoarded the money she had taken from Wallace three months ago, and between that and the wages that Saul paid her at the end of every week--in cash to avoid paying taxes, since a tax form sent to the IRS would provide the government with a way of tracking her down--she was able to afford a small efficiency apartment and the necessities that went with it.

            _It isn't right that I should have to hide this way, in fear of people working for my own government, just because of a strange ability that I never asked for in the first place and don't have any longer anyway!_ she reflected bitterly. _I mean, the place I'm staying now isn't that much shabbier than the house where I grew up with Dad--but that house was HOME. Now I'm living in a city hundreds of miles from where I was born, under a fake name, with no driver's license, not paying taxes...at least Saul understands._ The elderly Jewish bookseller had no qualms about hiring her after he'd found her sleeping in his doorway the first week after she had come to Chicago. He had taken her in and fed her--she had not eaten in six days and came close to passing out as he'd guided her into the store--and had asked her why she was sleeping on the streets. It had all come pouring out, then--what she could do, how her father had sickened and died, how she had met Mulder, the F.B.I. agent's agreement that there were, indeed, people in the government who would want to control her because of what she could do. She had demonstrated her ability to go thin for the skeptical old man, and then--when he had calmed down and could talk in English again instead of Yiddish and German--he had offered her a job. A single glimpse of the number tattooed on his arm in dark blue ink told her why he accepted her story of government persecution without question. She had slept on a cot in the back of the store that night, instead of in the doorway. The next day he had helped her to find an inexpensive apartment and, since she could not get the utilities hooked up in her name without an ID, he had gotten the utilities in his name.

            _And then I started taking an interest in the drug dealers in the neighborhoods around here,_ she mused. _Wallace was just the icing on the cake._ She had finally decided not to let ethics stand in the way of stealing from the pusher and others like him, since the way they made their money could hardly be considered moral. _Saul was more than understanding when I came back a few days later and told him what had happened...and that I had met with Mulder again._

            By the time she reached the EL station, night had fallen, and she paid her ticket and waited out on the platform with a faint smile on her face, taking a deep breath and leaning back against a pillar. It had been three months since she had lost her ability to go thin, and though she tested herself every night, it showed no sign of returning. _So be it,_ she reflected wistfully. Mulder would be disappointed. She flushed as she thought of the F.B.I. agent and the last time they had seen each other; after a few days, when sanity had returned and rational thought had prevailed, she could only marvel at how she had behaved around him. _What is it about him that turns my brain to jelly?_ After a month had passed and she was sure that she was not pregnant, she was able to take her feelings for him and push them into a tiny box at the back of her mind, then lock the door to that box and throw away the key. _I have to be realistic about this_ , she thought wretchedly as the train arrived and she got aboard, taking a seat near the doors. _I have to assume that there are...factions within the government who would like to find me, to exploit the ability that I don't have anymore. I can't exactly pull up stakes and move to D.C. to be near Mulder...much as the idea tempts me. And I have no real proof that he'd want such a thing anyway; for all I know, he's relieved that I'm out of his life. I mean, he and his partner--Agent Scully--seemed...pretty close. She's everything I'm not--a professional, calm, competent, closer to his own age..._ Darkness flickered behind her eyes. _I'll probably never see him again. So it's not logical to keep...wanting him. Needing him._ She clenched her fists until the knuckles went white. _Loving him_. She bit her lower lip and hunched deeper into her seat, a scowl pasted on her face. _At least he didn't realize that, when we made love in the warehouse, it was...well, there was so much blood anyway, since I'd gotten shot, and I **know** it couldn't have been **his** first time, and..._ For the hundredth time since their encounter, she mentally cursed the path she had chosen in school--a path that had favored the quest for information over friends, dating, and relationships. _No wonder poor Randy finally went somewhere else for sex. I wasn't exactly forthcoming in that regard..._ She shook her head, a rueful smile appearing and disappearing from her lips as quickly as a rabbit in a magician's hat _. I had no idea what I was missing!_

            The train came to a stop at the next station and she glanced up automatically as the doors opened. An emaciated, grey-haired man in his mid-50's got on, his grizzled face as weathered as an old piece of leather left out in the rain too long. His eyes slid past her and he took a seat at the end of the car; except for her, he was the only one in the car. She watched absently as he shook a cigarette out of a battered pack of Camels and lit it, drawing in the first drag and erupting in a fit of hacking coughs as the train took off again. His eyes flitted to her, the suspicious look on his face unchanging, and she looked away, raking a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. She heard the old man snort and shifted in her seat, glad to be going home for the night. _Make supper, read the paper and another chapter or six in one of the books Saul got for me from the library--I think Michael Talbot's 'Holographic Universe'--and then take a long, hot bath and go to bed_. She sighed. _Maybe tonight I won't dream about Mulder. Yeah, right._

            The train slowed again, coming to a stop at her station, and she glanced up as the doors across from her opened and someone got on.

            A faint moan escaped from her lips and she felt the blood drain from her face as she stared into a familiar face. Her father stood framed in the doorway, a fond smile on his lips, his arms opening to embrace her. Behind her, she heard a startled squeak from the man who had gotten on at the last station, and then a hoarse quaver. "Dora? Dora, my God, is it really you?"

            _This can't be Dad--Dad is dead--what in God's name--_ He stepped forward, coming closer, his arms open wide, and every alarm in existence went off in Nicole's brain. A spike of fear as cold as sharp as liquid nitrogen tore through her and she dove forward, under those grasping arms, and scrambled out the train doors, which were already closing. She felt the brush of steel nipping at her heel and yanked her feet out as she struck concrete, rolled, and collided head-first with one of the ironwork uprights supporting the sheet-metal roof overhead. Bright lights danced in front of her eyes and she lay on her face, half-dazed, as the train began to pull away.

            A long, ragged, agonized scream echoed from the moving train to bounce off the walls and swirl around her like a cold hand. She flinched, cringing back, and felt warm wetness streaming down her face. She stared at the dwindling lights of the train as it rattled away on the tracks, slowly lifting her hand to swipe at the moisture trickling down her cheek. Her fingers came away stained with scarlet, and it took an effort for her to drag herself to her feet and turn to lurch toward home.

* * *

 

  **August 1**

 

            Nicole handed over a dollar bill and plucked the morning's issue of the 'Chicago Tribune' off a stack of papers as the man at the newsstand tucked her money into his apron. She folded the paper up and tucked it under her arm, then hurried down the street toward the bookstore, balancing a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of donuts in the other. She paused in front of the door and shifted the waxed-paper bakery bag to her mouth before fishing out the keys to the store and unlocking the front door.

            It was quiet and dark inside, and she locked the door again before setting coffee, donuts, and newspaper down on the front desk and turning the lights on. Then she bustled around the store, setting up the cash register and getting ready to open. The square of white gauze taped over the right side of her forehead stood out starkly against her face, even more pale than her skin; the gash in her face had bled copiously, ruining the shirt she had been wearing. _At least I didn't have to go to the hospital again_ , she thought with a shudder. The scream she had heard last night as the train pulled away was stuck in her memory, playing over and over again even while she slept. She had woken up several times during the night, drenched in sweat, the sheet pasted to her body, shaking like a sapling in a tornado.

            With a shake of her head, Nicole checked her watch; it was almost nine A.M., and she went to unlock the front door for the day, then paced back over to the front desk and sat down, taking a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee before opening the paper and spreading it out to read.

            The morning's news was about what she had expected--innumerable small countries killing large sections of their populace because of imagined religious or political differences, overheated debate by the two main American political parties about the purported indiscretions of their counterparts, corruption rife amidst the ranks of big business, the inevitable roll call of injuries and deaths caused by crime. There were several one-paragraph 'human interest' stories scattered here and there among the pages, but not enough to outweigh the gloomy picture drawn by the other stories taken together as a whole.

            She turned to the last page of the main section and stopped. Near the top of a page full of small articles about carjackings, robberies, rapes, and arson was a photograph set above a double headline. **ELDERLY MAN DIES OF HEART ATTACK ON EL**. She felt a ribbon of ice run through her veins; the photograph was that of the old man who had been on the train with her last night. Beneath the main headline, in smaller type, was an addendum. **RETIRED JANITOR'S BODY SCAVENGED BY RATS**.

            _Rats?_ she wondered, a frown on her face. _How horrible..._ A wave of guilt washed over her. _Something's wrong here. I don't know what the Hell that was in the train car last night--I was **sure** it was Dad, but I heard the poor man on the train call someone else's name--but I'm willing to bet my last cent that it wasn't a heart attack that killed that man. _ She read the article slowly, scowling as she realized how little actual information was available. The man's name and age were printed, as was the name of his next-of-kin, but that was all. A vague comment attributed to the Public Transportation Director said that an investigation into 'the rat problem' was ongoing. _Ongoing?_ she thought, a dark tendril of suspicion rising in her mind. _Shouldn't they have announced they would begin one? If an investigation was **ongoing** , it meant...they were having problems before._

            She folded the paper back up and set it aside, a line between her furrowed brows as the bell over the door rang and Saul came in, a cheerful smile on his wrinkled face. "And how are you this fine morn--" he stopped as he saw the gauze on her forehead. "What happened, Nicki?"

            "Bumped my head," she said simply. "I'm fine, really."

            He shot her a worried look, but finally nodded. "I have a trip for you to make to the library to look something up for me, if you would; it's too far for me to ride." He shuddered. "Did you see in the paper about that man who died on the train last night? Ach, what a horrible way to go! Eaten by rats!" He shook his head.

            "The paper said he had a heart attack and the rats got him after," Nicole said cautiously.

            "Feh! Before, after--what's the difference?" He made a face. "Either way you go before Him above looking like you shaved with a weed-whacker."

            She laughed despite herself and rose from her chair, tossing the empty coffee cup and donut bag in the trash, then grabbed her pack. "Okay, what is it you need me to look up?"

            He pulled a rumpled list out of the breast pocket of the shirt he wore. "I have a request from Rabbi Feinman for these three books." She glanced at the titles and authors' names he had scrawled, then winced; she had picked up only a little in her three months at the store, but that was enough to know that the three books the Rabbi wanted were extremely rare. "You're a smart girl, and the Library's computers have Interweb access--"

            "Internet."

            "Whatever," he dismissed. "Some of our suppliers have websites, and so do a few other rare book stores, like Broder's in Jersey; see if any of them have these three books in stock. If they do, send them one of those e-mail things with our address and phone number and a request for prices and shipping time."

            "Okay," Nicole agreed, folding the list back up and slipping it into her pocket. "It shouldn't take very long to look this up--unless you want me to check with some suppliers we haven't used before?"

            "What, and risk being gypped by the _goyim_?" He shook his head. "No offense, Nicki, but I don't trust that many Gentiles anymore, and you're one of the few."

            She smiled gently. "All right," she told him. "I think I can be back by lunch."

            "Eh, take your time," he said with a wave of his hand. The bell over the front door rang and a little old lady bundled up in a heavy shawl fringed with silk came trudging in, heading for the section of the shop that carried cookbooks. Mrs. Jacobson was a regular customer, and she nodded at Nicole and Saul in passing. "It's not as though they're beating down the doors."

            Nicole laughed, nodded, and hurried out the door.

* * *

 

            The library was quiet this early in the morning--almost deserted except for a few diehards doing research and the inevitable scattering of homeless people who had come in out of the August heat for the Library's air conditioning. There was no one at the row of computers the Library had provided, and she sank into a chair in front of the closest, setting her backpack down on the floor between her feet and pulling Saul's list out of her pocket. Then she fired up the computer, accessing the Internet browser's SEARCH system, and began to type.

            It was almost noon by the time she finished, and she tucked the list back into her pocket along with the notes she had taken down. Three of the store's usual suppliers or contacts had the books the Rabbi was looking for, and she had left e-mail with each of them requesting them to get in touch with Saul at the store via normal mail. She smiled at the thought of her employer--who was almost a second father to her--ever actually getting a computer for the store. _What, a good technophobic Neo-Luddite like him?_ _Never_. She locked her fingers together over her head and stretched, grimacing as a twinge of stiffness shot through her shoulder. The bullet wound she had suffered three months ago had healed well enough, though there was a nasty cicatrice of puckered red scar tissue at the center of the old injury, an eternal reminder of Wallace's cigarette. It throbbed sometimes when the weather was wet, but Nicole was just happy that the entire arm hadn't gone gangrenous.

            She reached for her pack and then paused as her eyes lit on the rows and rows of microfiche. There were cabinets full of the stuff, containing two dozen of the country's most influential and widely-read newspapers--the New York Post, the Los Angeles Times, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Chicago Sun-Times and Tribune--dating back to the turn of the century. The Library was in the process of transferring the microfiched papers to a computer database with a search engine, beginning with Chicago's own papers, and Nicole turned back to the computer as an idea occurred to her. _Eaten by rats, huh? I don't think so. Whatever happened on the train last night was not natural. The big question is, has it happened before--and if it has, was it blamed on rats then, too?_

            The notion seemed likely to her; if the man on the train last night had died in a sufficiently gory manner, then the officials would have had to come up with a mundane explanation for his condition. _And since he was found dead inside the train, they can hardly claim he fell under it, can they?_ She glanced guiltily at the clock, then shrugged. _Saul told me to take my time, and this is important; I'll apologize when I get back._

            Her fingers flew as she called the computer's Search system back up and began to enter phrases for the computer to look for. She began with the titles of all the city's newspapers, major and minor, then added the words 'rats', 'death', and 'bodies' to the list. The computer began to search through the archived newspapers, and she sat back and waited for it to finish.

            The computer finished five minutes later, and she sighed; the list was a short one. She called up each article in order, scanning them for anything out of the ordinary, her mood growing more sour with each passing moment. _Guess it's a good thing I'm not in the F.B.I.,_ she mused as she hit the button to call up the last article. _'Cause if my lack of success is any indication, I'm no Mulder!_

            But as she began to read the last article, her breath caught in her throat and she leaned forward, eyes glued to the screen. The article was dated October 15, 1974, and described how police had come at the call of a group of friends playing poker in a slaughterhouse office after closing time. One of the group, the plant's security guard--who had volunteered his office as a place for the group to play cards without their wives finding out--had gone to get glasses for the cheap wine one of the others had brought and had not returned. They found him in a different part of the plant, dead, his body horribly mutilated. The mutilations were blamed on rats scavenging on the body after death. _Bingo!_ Nicole exulted silently, hitting the PRINT command on the read-out and pulling her notebook back out of her pack to take notes. The article had been supplied to the Chicago Sun by INS, the Independent News Service, a media stringer like UPI, AP, and Reuters that had briefly flourished during the '70's. _INS' main office was right here in Chicago,_ Nicole reflected _, though I don't think they're still in business._ She racked her memory to recall if she had seen any articles recently attributed to INS, and came up blank.

            She jotted down the last few pertinent details and hit the RELOAD command on the computer, returning the program to its main screen. _Now_ , she thought as she tucked her notebook away and slung her backpack over her shoulder, _I'll take Saul's information back to him and then see if I can beg off for the rest of the day. There weren't any more articles about this death in the database, but the way the reporter wrote the article, it sounded like it was meant to be the first in the series. If that's so--and if he's still alive--maybe he'll remember the article and the events he wrote about. If I can track him down and talk to him, maybe I can find out more about...what I saw last night._ She shuddered even as she stepped outside into the warm summer sunlight. _And why it looked like Dad. Because if this isn't an isolated death--if what happened in 1974 is connected to what happened last night and it's going to happen again--then I can't just stand by and let it happen. That man last night--the way he screamed--_ She shivered again, suddenly cold. _That could have been me. No, I can't pretend that nothing's going on when I know differently. If something strange IS happening, I can't do anything about it--but I know someone who can._ She clutched her backpack a little tighter as she stopped at a phone booth, reaching for the phone book. Much of the information she had gained from Mulder's mind the night three months ago when the undiluted Brainstorm had seeped into her wound had faded--but not all of it. She had scribbled Mulder's phone number and address in Alexandria, Virginia down in her notebook, and she knew he had a far better chance of making sense of what was happening here than she could.

            _Or am I just looking for an excuse to call him?_ she asked herself, ashamed. _I...miss him._ Some bitter and sarcastic portion of her mind laughed at the idea. _How can I miss him when I barely know him?_ But she did know him, she argued back, aware that she would have seemed schizophrenic to an onlooker if her back-and-forth conversation with herself had been voiced aloud. _I know him better than anyone else ever could--even if some of the things he shared with me have faded over the past few months. Data is unimportant; I know his **soul**._

            She shook herself and flipped through the phone book, annoyed for having drifted off so easily. Her finger moved down a column of names and she stopped at one entry at last, memorizing the number before putting the book back and fishing out a handful of change. _Enough,_ she decided firmly. _I can dream about Mulder whenever I want; this call--this reporter--is what's important now. I have to pay attention--_

            The phone rang and was answered almost at once. "Hello?" murmured a dry, pleasant voice.

            "Hello," Nicole said softly. "I'd like to speak with Carl Kolchak, please."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Kolchak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone's interested, this crossover directly ties into an episode of 'Kolchak: the Night Stalker' titled "Horror In the Heights", about a series of killings committed by a Rakshasa. The term will, of course, be familiar to AD&D players and those with a background in Hindu mysticism. I liked this episode more than almost any of the others in the series because it dealt with a 'new' monster instead of hackneyed old clichés: the runaway robot, the swamp monster, space aliens, evil witches, the politician who's sold his soul to the devil (how they thought they could pass that one off as fiction, I'll never know!), the headless motorcyclist (OK, maybe that one wasn't that old). A fair amount of accurate research went into the episode, and I was impressed by the writer's determination to try something new.

            The figure in the robe took a tentative step forward, then bowed before the altar. "Most Holy, I have news of last night," he said slowly. "We have spoken to the host for the Child. There was another person on the train beside the Blessed--a woman. She got away."

            There was silence for a moment, the candles around the room flickering. Then an answer came, seeming to emanate from the flames on the altar themselves. "Find her," the voice ordered sternly, echoing hollowly from wall to wall. "It is the sign we have awaited. She is Sita reborn, the wife of Brahma, and her presence must be secured before we can continue onward."

            "It shall be done, Most Holy," the man answered. He dipped his head low in a final bow and backed hastily out of the room.

* * *

 

             Nicole ran one hand through her hair and took a last glance at her mirror to make certain her contact lenses were in place before she tucked her compact into her pack and rose as the train slowed and came to a stop at the station. Saul had been more than willing to give her the rest of the afternoon off, especially after she had closed for him last night; she had dropped the information he had asked for off at the store before heading to keep the appointment she had made. She waited for the doors to open and hurried out into the bright afternoon sunlight, pausing to glance at the addresses of the apartment buildings on either side of the street before picking a direction and starting down the sidewalk. She had scribbled Kolchak's address down in her notebook, but her brief conversation with the man over the phone was still fresh enough in her mind that she didn't need to get the notebook out to check it.

            The neighborhood was about on a par with the one where she lived; the apartment buildings lining both sides of the street were clean but shabby, and there were more than a few cars in various states of repair at the curbs, most of them up on blocks. The scents of garbage and burnt rubber vied with the gentler, friendlier smells of the meager flowers planted around a few of the houses by their owners and--incredibly--chocolate chip cookies, the aroma emanating from one window absolutely mouth-watering. Nicole wondered wistfully how many years it had been since she'd had a home-baked chocolate chip cookie, then shrugged. _Not important right now_ , she mused, keeping her eyes peeled for the address Kolchak had given her. I _f I miss them that much, when this is all over I can see if Saul will ask Judith to make me some. Better than trying to bake some myself._ She grimaced; her own ability at baking was only one step on the list above her ability--these days--to go thin. _The last time I tried baking anything it took me a week to get the stink of burned dough out of my apartment._

            _Here we go--57232 Pulaski--just a few blocks from the Museum of Lithuanian Culture_ , she reflected. She turned up the building's sidewalk and mounted the worn steps to the front door, letting herself in to the foyer. There were doors to her right and left, and a flight of stairs straight ahead leading up. She took the steps two at a time, looking for Apartment 4. It was on the second floor, and she paused for only a moment in front of the door before knocking.

            "Just a minute," she heard a strong, wry voice call out. A few seconds later, she heard locks being undone and then the door swung open. "Ms. Alexander?"

            Carl Kolchak was tall, about as tall as Mulder; his open, honest face was heavily lined, and his hair was mostly white, though there were a few strands of rusty brown here and there. Bright blue eyes twinkled like miniature stars, a glint of humor flashing through his gaze as he smiled at her. He was thick-bodied but not actually fat; Nicole could tell by the fluid way he stepped aside to let her enter that the muscle under the layer of padding on his broad frame was still toned and in shape.

            "It was good of you to agree to see me, Mr. Kolchak," she greeted him warmly as she entered. He shook the head and waved her toward one of two worn easy chairs as he shut the door behind her.

            "It's not often that someone calls these days asking to talk to me about the stories I wrote back when I was still with INS," he said. "But I'm afraid if you don't drop the 'Mr. Kolchak' garbage and call me Carl, I'll have to ask you to leave no matter how much I need the company."

            She laughed and sank into one of the chairs. "Only if you call me Nicole," she replied, warming to him at once.

            "Sounds fair to me," he agreed. "Would you like some coffee?"

            "I'd love some," she told him. "Black, no sugar."

            "Ah, a lady after my own heart," he chuckled. "Be right back."

            She watched him hurry into the kitchen and listened to the sounds of china clinking and coffee pouring, her gaze distant as she pulled her backpack around and took out the print-out she had made of his article and the newspaper she had bought that morning. Kolchak came back carrying two cups of coffee, setting them down on the small, battered table in front of the chairs before sitting down. Nicole glanced around at the books stacked everywhere--on shelves, the desk, in piles on the floor--and managed to suppress a smile. _I'll bet he cleared the end table off just for my visit_ , she guessed, catching sight of more stacks of books shoved over into a corner around a long-dead fig tree with a blue ribbon tied around the pot.

            She set the papers aside and took a sip of the coffee, then grinned. It was strong--as strong as the coffee she had used to make herself to keep awake during finals week at college--and her esteem for the retired reporter went up yet another notch.

            "So, Nicole, what did you want to talk about?" Kolchak asked. "You said it was urgent."

            She nodded, setting her cup down, and pulled out the morning's newspaper. "Did you see today's paper?" she asked him. He glanced at the front page and nodded.

            "More bad news," he sighed. "Not much has changed since I was writing for INS." Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "The stories are just as violent as they ever were...just not as interesting."

            She flipped to the back page with the story about the janitor on the train. "Did you read this one?" she asked him. He frowned and took the paper from her hands, pulling it closer to read.

            "I'll admit I don't bother with much past the front page anymore, except for the obituaries," he said as he scanned the article. "Most of the people I used to know have passed on in the last few years. Miss Emily--Tony...only Ron is left, and he's..." His voice trailed off and he lowered the newspaper, looking up at her, his face serious. "This man on the train ...he died last night?"

            Nicole nodded, then passed over the print-out of the article he had written twenty years ago. "Sounds a lot like what happened here," she said. He glanced at the print-out, and she had enough time to register the flash of comprehension in his eyes as he recognized his own story. "I think they might be connected."

            He murmured something under his breath, a foreign-sounding word she didn't quite catch or understand. "Why do you think so?" he asked at last, sounding disturbed.

            She took a deep breath. "Because I was on the train with that old man last night, and I know that what happened isn't exactly what they printed in the paper." His eyes widened and he waited expectantly. "I was on my way home from work; it was late and the man who died was the only other person on the train, which had stopped at the station in my neighborhood. When the doors opened, someone got on." She balled her hands into fists. "It looked exactly like my father. Exactly like him."

            "It couldn't have been your father, come to visit you?" Kolchak asked cautiously.

            "I doubt it. My father's been dead for almost five months."

            "I see," Kolchak sighed, sounding weary. "Go on."

            "So...I was stunned. Surprised to see him, but glad at the same time. But I was scared, too--the guy on the train with me called the person I thought was my dad by a woman's name--and when my dad started to come toward me with open arms, I panicked. I ducked past him and jumped out the doors just as they were closing. That's how I hit my head." She gestured toward the gauze on her forehead. "The doors closed and the train pulled out--and then I heard a scream." She shuddered again at the memory. "The man on the train died, but not of a heart attack--and I don't think it was rats that mutilated his body."

            Kolchak sighed again and gestured toward the copy of his article. "It looked like an old friend and co-worker--Miss Emily, God bless her soul--when I saw it. It always looks like someone its victim trusts, you see."

            "What is it?" Nicole breathed, her whole body as taut as a drawn bowstring.

            "It's called a Rakshasa," he said darkly. "It's an evil spirit, out of Hindu mythology." Nicole blinked in surprise. "Where to start...?" His eyes were fixed on something far away and long past as he put his thoughts in order. "Buck Feinman's killing--" he gestured at his article, "--was just the first. The very next night the creature killed three more people. The first to die was a married couple, the Goldsteins, on their way home from a movie. The police said they were mugged while taking a shortcut, then murdered. I had a police radio back in my car then, and when I heard about the murders, I went there to get what information I could for INS. While I was there, I ran into one of Buck Feinman's friends, one of the ones he'd been playing cards with the night before--a man named Harry Starman. Harry told me he knew who had killed Buck and the Goldsteins."

            Nicole's breath caught in her throat. "Did he?"

            Kolchak chuckled and shook his head. "Not exactly. But he thought he did. You have to understand; back then, Roosevelt Heights was a predominantly Jewish neighborhood--"

            "Roosevelt Heights?" Nicole asked, startled. "That's where this happened?" Kolchak nodded. "That's where I live and work. That's the neighborhood where the...the thing killed the man on the train. It's still a mostly Jewish neighborhood--full of older folks."

            "Just like it was back in the seventies," Kolchak commented. "Anyway, in the weeks before the killings, someone had started to paint swastikas on the walls and fences around the neighborhood. Harry thought it was anti-Semitic, and he'd seen the man who painted the symbols--caught him in the act. He took me to get a quick look at the man. It turned out the man was Hindu; the swastika is an old symbol, and the Nazis were just the most recent group to adopt its use. In the Hindu religion, it's a symbol of light--like the cross for Christians or the Star of David for the Jews."

            Nicole listened raptly, her coffee gone cold. "So the man painting the swastikas had something to do with the Rakshasa?"

            "He was hunting it," Kolchak confirmed. "He'd been hunting them for sixty years, and he was old--dying, in fact. But I didn't find that out until later. I snuck into the lot behind the Hindu man's restaurant to check it out--"

            Nicole sat up a little straighter, startled. "Wait a minute. A Hindu restaurant? Was it called the Lakshmi Restaurant?" Kolchak nodded. "It's still there--well, sort of. It's just down the block from the bookstore where I work, but it's closed; the building's been condemned for years."

            "So you know the place I mean," the reporter pointed out. She nodded and he went on. "While I was in the lot behind the restaurant, I heard Harry call out my name. He had stayed in the alley--he said he was too old to climb the fence that separated the alley from the lot--and then he screamed. When I got over the fence, he was dead--torn to shreds." He made a face. "It only took me thirty seconds to climb over that fence once he screamed. Whatever killed him ripped him apart in less than half a minute." He shook his head. "I looked up and saw this little man--the Hindu who owned the restaurant--watching me. He said a word I didn't quite catch--Rakshasa--and then ran. Before I could follow him, the police arrived. They took me in for questioning, and they were especially interested in the fact that Harry had called out my name right before he died. The police wanted to pin Harry's death on me, but they knew they had no real evidence, and my editor--Tony Vincenzo--arrived right after that with INS' lawyer and got me out of there." He paused. "The next night, the creature killed a police officer."

            Nicole jerked. "Jesus!"

            "At about the same time, I was talking to Lane Merriott. Merriott is--was--a dealer in Far Eastern antiquities--bowls and scrolls and those little bronze statues with all the arms. He was also an expert on Hindu art and culture. Merriott was able to tell me a bit about the Rakshasa. It seems they're evil spirits that possess people to kill and feast on human flesh. In the Vedic scriptures, they're called the Children of Ravana." He rose from his chair and went to one of the bookcases, scanning the shelves until he found the volume he was looking for. He pulled it down, carried it over to his seat, sat back down, and opened the book to a horrendously gruesome picture of a giant, ferocious monster with blood drenching its matted coat and a human torso gripped in its tusked jaws. "Ravana was a demon lord whose deeds were said to be so horrible they stopped the sun and moon in their course; as a finale to his life of crime, he kidnapped Sita, the wife of the god Brahma. The Vedas are a little vague on just why Ravana kidnapped her; nonetheless, Brahma was apparently pretty mad. He went after Ravana and rescued his wife, then killed the demon lord. After Ravana's death, the Rakshasas drifted into a timeless limbo. Every so often, now, it is said, they send out emissaries into the physical world to see if the time is right to return."

            "When will that be?" Nicole asked softly, staring down at the picture.

            "When the world has slipped to the edge of the abyss, according to the Vedas--when mistrust, decadence, and moral decline rule," Kolchak finished. "Any old time, in other words." He shrugged. "I've done some research on a number of the stranger stories I ran into when I was younger--"

            "You mean there were others as...unnatural as this one?" Nicole questioned, startled.

            "Some were stranger," Kolchak laughed wryly. "The next time I get drunk, I'll tell you about the presidential candidate who sold his soul to Satan."

            Nicole arched one brow. "And that's different from modern politics _how_...?" she quipped. He laughed again and she shook her head. "You remind me of...someone I know. It sounds like you've run into as many monsters, freaks, and psychos as he has."

            "Is he a reporter, too?" Kolchak asked, sounding intrigued.

            "An F.B.I. agent," she answered. "So what happened with the Rakshasa? Did the man hunting it kill it?"

            "Unfortunately not," Kolchak went on. "Like I said, he was old--sick and dying. He told me more about the Rakshasa--that it always appeared to its victim as someone the victim trusted. He also told me that it could only be killed by a crossbow, and that the crossbow bolt had to be blessed by a priest of Brahma. Then he gave his crossbow to me to protect myself and told me to leave. He said he could still feel it lurking nearby. I didn't want to leave him, but he insisted. On the way out, I ran into Miss Emily..." A shadow of pain passed over his face. "Miss Emily was the secretary and advice column writer for INS, sort of like a bargain-basement Ann Landers. She was almost eighty--the sweetest little old lady I knew. When I saw her in the basement of the Hindu restaurant, which is where I had found the old man--I was surprised. I told her to go home and she didn't; she just kept coming toward me with her arms open. It looked just like her; it even sounded just like her." He hesitated. "Which is why it was so hard to shoot her."

            Nicole recoiled, her leg thumping against the edge of the coffee table. Her cup rattled and almost tipped over; she caught it at the last moment, her eyes wide and shocked. "Was it..."

            "It wasn't really Miss Emily," Kolchak said heavily. "It was the Rakshasa, and I had killed it. Its body faded away like morning smog, and I--" he shrugged, "--I went home and wrote an article about the monster."

            "I didn't see that one when I was searching through the newspapers at the Library," Nicole said cautiously.

            "I'd be surprised if you had," Kolchak murmured. "Tony refused to put it out on the wire. Called it garbage. But I still have it here somewhere--" he waved an arm at the piles of books and papers filling the postage-stamp living-room, "--buried. As I said, I did some more research after the incident; apparently, there's a cult in Delhi that worships Ravana and still waits for his return. The Delhi police find ritually-sacrificed bodies in the poorer parts of the city from time to time; it's unbelievable what some people will do in the name of religion these days."

            Nicole sighed. _Cults? Hindu demon lords? Evil spirits? This definitely sounds like something in Mulder's line of work. But...after what happened last time, I really don't want to call him if I'm not absolutely sure_. "Unbelievable," she agreed, and sighed, then rose from her chair. "Mr. Kol--uh, Carl--I want to thank you for talking with me. I learned a lot that I didn't know that I needed to. I think I'm going to check out that old restaurant you mentioned and see if I can find anything there--and then I'm going to call in that F.B.I. friend I mentioned."

            "Glad to help," he said, also standing. She hesitated as he reached for a battered hat and white seersucker blazer hanging from a coat-rack near the door, then put them on. As she watched, he went over to his desk and pulled open a drawer, taking out an old-fashioned camera with a snap-on flashbulb, a notepad, and a pocket tape recorder.

            "Uhmmm..." she murmured, frowning. "Are you going somewhere?"

            He flashed her a smooth smile. "With you, of course," he replied. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder arrives in Chicago to meet up with Kolchak to find Nicole.
> 
> Unfortunately, Krycek has tagged along. And not necessarily to help.

 

            It was almost dark by the time they got to the restaurant, and Nicole cast a sidelong glance at Kolchak. The older man had no problem so far in keeping up with her-- _though_ , she mused, _to be fair, I'm not in any hurry. I'm way out of my league here, and I know it._ She remembered the picture in the book Kolchak had showed her and shivered _. I won't let my desire to see Mulder again drag him into this if there's no real reason to. But if there is a creature and people are really dying--_

            "Here we are," Kolchak murmured, stopping in front of the restaurant. "This place has certainly seen better days." He reached out and tested the doors, but they were locked and chained and showed no sign of giving. "We can go around the back and try getting in there, through the rear door that I used twenty years ago."

            "What if the fence is still up?" Nicole teased. "Are you up to climbing it?"

            "Nicole, if that fence is still standing after twenty years in this neighborhood, I'll eat my camera," Kolchak chuckled.

            They went around the side of the building, down the alley, and Nicole grinned as Kolchak's jaw dropped. A grimy, weathered, eight-foot tall wooden fence surrounded the lot in back of the old restaurant, and the gate was firmly chained and padlocked shut. "Do you want ketchup or mustard with your camera?" she asked him lightly. A pungent chemical scent tickled her nostrils and she crinkled her nose, trying to hold back a sneeze.

            The reporter frowned. "Tabasco sauce," he muttered, his own nostrils flaring. "Hold on a moment..." He took a step forward, pulling an old pocket-knife out of his blazer pocket. Nicole watched as he shaved a sliver of wood off one of the grey, dingy boards that made up the fence. The inner wood was bright and fresh, and he held the sliver out to her. "This fence is new. Someone's stained it to make it look old; you can smell the varnish. Look, the wood underneath the stain is still sticky with sap. I don't think this fence has been here even a week."

            Nicole's eyes narrowed to slits and she glanced up and down the alley, then shook her head. "All right, then," she murmured, handing her backpack to him. "I'll go up and over and take a look. Maybe I can unlock the gate so you won't have to climb over the fence."

            "Be careful in there," Kolchak warned. "The basement underneath the restaurant is big; it'd be easy to get lost." He slipped one arm through the loops of her pack.

            She nodded, then climbed up on top of a garbage can standing next to the wall, grabbing the top of the wall and hoisting herself up. She threw one leg over the top and pulled herself to a safe perch atop the wall, then jumped down into the lot on the other side.

            The empty lot--sort of a back yard behind the restaurant--looked no different than the rest of the neighborhood. Ancient, faded swastikas in red and yellow paint covered the walls, spaced about six inches apart. The door into the restaurant stood open and hanging off one hinge; a few feet away from it was the door that led down into the building's basement. Nicole turned and studied the fence gate. The chain that held it shut looked new, and the padlock securing it was one of the best made, a Krieger. _Too bad I never learned how to pick locks_ , she mused _. Of course, I'm not sure Mulder could, either, so in that regard, not having him here is no big deal._ She tested the door that led down into the restaurant's cellar and it opened smoothly, without a sound. She examined the hinges and found that they had been recently oiled; the lubricant came away fresh and black on her fingertips.

            "Is everything all right, Nicole?" Kolchak asked from the other side of the fence.

            "Okay so far," she affirmed. "But there's no way I'm going to be able to get this lock open. You'll just have to stay there. I'm going down into the cellar to look around; if I see anything weird, I'll come running out of there so fast it'll make your hair turn white."

            "My hair is white already." Kolchak laughed, but his laugh sounded forced. "Be careful."

            "Promise," Nicole shot back. "There's a flashlight in my backpack; throw it over the fence, will you?"

            She heard the nylon pack being unzipped and then the flashlight came sailing over the fence. She caught it deftly and flicked it on; the beam speared into the darkness, pushing back the shadows. "Almost spilled the other stuff in here," the reporter muttered.

            "That's okay," she told him. "The only thing in there that's really important is my address book. Everything else can be replaced. I'll be back in a minute." And she started down the stairs.

            The cement walls of the stairwell were damp and mossy, but the floor underneath her feet was dry and clean. There were cobwebs in the corners and a thick layer of dust on the old furniture and boxes stacked up in the cellar--but not on the floor, she noted uneasily. One room had obviously been a bedroom, once upon a time; Hindu prints adorned the wall above a small altar decorated with candle stubs and a tarnished bronze statuette of Brahma. There were other idols--she recognized elephant-headed Ganesh and the fiercely-grinning face of Kali--and in one corner was a bed, built low to the ground like a futon. The hangings on the walls and the bedclothes had rotted away, and she grimaced at the moldering smell that hovered in the room. The scent was akin to the one she had discovered when Saul had found a crate full of books sitting in six inches of water down in the bookstore's cellar, the pages illegible and the covers swollen like leeches bloated on blood.

            She turned to go explore the other rooms. _Kolchak was right_ , she reflected as she headed for the hall that led to the other rooms further back from the stairs. _It is bigger than it should be down here--almost as if someone had connected this basement with others by tunnels._ She shivered; Chicago was full of old steam tunnels, abandoned sewer access tunnels, and walled-up side-shafts for the EL that had gone underground and been abandoned, like the one that had been flooded by the river a few years back _. If I'm not careful, I could get lost down here._ She paused next to the steps, wondering whether it was wise to go any further. _Should've brought some donuts from breakfast; then I could have left a trail of crumbs like Hansel and Gretel._

            The scrape of a sole against the floor behind her was all the warning she got. She started to whirl, then screamed as a hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back. The flashlight went flying from her hand, the beam twisting erratically and illuminating--briefly--half a dozen dark, intense-eyed faces. She had time to note the intricately-patterned silk robes and then a hand was pushing a damp cloth toward her face--a cloth that stank of pungent, dizzying chemicals.

            "Kolchak, run!" she screamed.

            Then the rag was clamped over her face, the chloroform fumes insinuating themselves into her nostrils, and the world whirled and went dark around her.

 

* * *

 

            The muffled shout came ringing up from the basement to the alley and Kolchak felt his blood run cold. "No--" he groaned, hesitating.

            The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs of the restaurant's cellar echoed off the walls of the buildings around him and he turned and raced down the alley as fast as his protesting body would carry him. His heart jack-hammered in his chest as he reached the main street, cut left, and headed for the first lighted window he saw. _Phone_ , he thought breathlessly, _gotta call the police, tell them--_ He stumbled to a half in front of a dusty-windowed storefront. The gilded lettering on the window read ROSENBLUM BOOKS, and Kolchak could see an older man inside, puttering around and shelving dusty old volumes. He tried the door and it swung open easily, a bell above the door ringing as he entered. The man glanced up, a pleasant smile spreading across his face as Kolchak hurried toward the front desk. "Can I help you?" he asked.

            "Is there a phone here I could use?" Kolchak asked apprehensively.

            The old man gestured toward the phone atop the desk. "Help yourself," he said, gathering up another armful of books, his knotted fingers lifting each one gingerly. "If you need anything else, just ask."

            Kolchak nodded, lifting the receiver, his finger poised above the buttons for 911--and then stopped. _What am I doing?_ he asked himself agonizedly, understanding the futility of calling the police. _If they wouldn't believe me twenty years ago, they're not going to believe me now. Miss Alexander is probably dead--_

            He froze, then grabbed the backpack that still dangled by one loop from his wrist, ripping the zipper open and dumping everything out on top of the desk. A small address book with a fake leather cover bounced out last and he snatched at it, fanning the pages open. Most of the entries had been crossed out over time; only two remained, one for a 'Randy' and the other for someone named Fox Mulder. The address for Mulder was Alexandria, Virginia--right across the state line from Washington, D.C. With shaking fingers, Kolchak dialed the number, crossing his fingers as the phone at the other end began to ring.

 

* * *

 

**Washington, D.C.; 10:51 P.M.**

 

            "--shouldn't have shot him," Mulder sighed. "I guess it doesn't matter now; he's dead, and no amount of arguing is going to change that."

            "I swear I thought he had a gun," Krycek insisted as he stared down at the older agent. "Not a Bible. I've never had trouble telling the difference between the two before."

            Mulder's cell-phone rang before he could continue, and Mulder pulled it out, glad for the interruption. "This is Mulder," he answered automatically, half-hoping it was Scully.

            "Agent Fox Mulder?" an unfamiliar voice asked cautiously. Mulder went still.

            "That's right. Who is this?" he asked carefully.

            "My name is Carl Kolchak and I'm a reporter," the man on the other end of the line answered, and Mulder sat up straighter. "I'm calling--"

            "Not the author of 'The Night Stalker'?" Mulder asked curiously. The reporter's name was not unfamiliar to him; he had a huge folder full of the man's news clippings, most of which had appeared in tabloids in the 70's and early 80's. "The book about the 400-year-old vampire haunting Las Vegas in 1973?"

            "Yes, that's right," Kolchak answered, sounding impatient. "I'm calling about Nicole Alexander." Mulder went absolutely still, frost sheathing his limbs.

            "What about Nicole?" he asked finally, seeing--out of the corner of one eye--Krycek turn to stare at him fixedly.

            "I got your phone number from her address book," the reporter told him hastily. "She came to me earlier today with a story about running into what she thought was the ghost of her dead father on the EL last night. A man was found dead on the train car she'd been riding and she thought that whatever she saw was what had killed him. Her encounter tied in with a story I worked on twenty years ago." Mulder listened intently as the retired reporter sketched out the details, giving him the story of the Rakshasa. "We went tonight to go check out the restaurant where I killed the monster twenty years ago and she disappeared."

            Something inside Mulder's stomach roiled, and he felt his heart constrict into a little knot. "I'll be on the next flight to Chicago," he told the older man.

            "I'll meet you there," Kolchak informed him, and hung up.

            Mulder replaced the phone's receiver in its cradle, turned in his chair, and saw that Krycek was gone. _Good_ , he thought determinedly as he shot up out of his chair and headed for the door. _This is one case I can’t have Krycek accompany me on. It'll take me just an hour to grab a bag from my apartment and get to the airport. Flights leave for Chicago every two hours; I can be at O'Hare that soon._

            His feet fairly flew over the worn linoleum floor as he raced for the elevator.

* * *

**Chicago; 9:53 P.M.**

 

            Kolchak had no sooner hung the phone up when he felt himself seized and whirled around. The little old bookseller was glaring at him fiercely. "I'll pay for the long-distance call," Kolchak said apologetically, holding his hands up placatingly.

            "Never mind that!" the man snapped. "I heard what you were saying on the phone! What have you done with Nicole?!?"

            Kolchak blinked, surprised. "You know Nicole?"

            "Know her, he asks! I only saved her from a life on the streets and practically took her in as my own daughter, that's all!" the withered little man sputtered. "She works here, too." His eyes blazed and he shook one gnarled finger threateningly under Kolchak's nose. "And if you've gotten her in trouble with those government people who are after her--"

"Government people?" Kolchak blurted, stunned. "What government people?"

            "Never you mind that!" the old man growled. "Where is Nicole?"

            "We were checking out the old Lakshmi restaurant down the street and she went into the cellar. I couldn't climb over the fence, so I stayed in the alley. I heard her scream for me to run and then someone came after me--"

            But the old man was no longer listening. "The Lakshmi?" he murmured, eyes wide and frightened. "Dear Yahweh...it's happening again." Before Kolchak could ask what he meant, the man grabbed the hooked iron rod used to pull down the steel shutters on the shop windows every night at closing and ran from the shop, heading down the street toward the boarded-up restaurant.

            "No, don't--" he yelled after the elderly book-seller, but the man had disappeared into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

            "Mulder's received word of Nicole Alexander," Krycek said to the figure that sat wreathed in pungent cigarette smoke behind the desk in the darkened office. "He's on his way to meet with her now. Apparently she's in some sort of trouble."

            "Where is she?" the leathery-faced man asked, eyes sharp as drill bits.

            "Still in Chicago," Krycek answered.

            "You've read her file?"

            "Yes," Krycek replied. "Do you want me to go with Mulder and apprehend her?"

            "Of course," the man with the cigarette said urbanely. "Make certain you don't underestimate her like that fool Stone did; take drugs along and use them when you find her. She can't use her special ability to escape if she's unconscious. If Mulder gives you any difficulty--" A sharklike grin spread across the creased, dry lips. "--there's still a warrant out for the girl's arrest. Take a copy of it along with you."

            Krycek nodded and hurried out to door to catch up with his new partner before the other agent left D.C.

 

* * *

**August 2; 12:17 A.M.**

 

            Mulder tucked his carry-on bag into the overhead compartment and sank into the window seat with his newspaper, staring out the window and feeling the sudden urge to get out of the plane and push--anything to hurry it along and get into the air _. What could have happened to Nicole? I should have asked Kolchak for more details._ He cursed himself for cutting the man off so quickly, but his haste to be on his way had blinded him to anything but the need to leave--right away. _She can’t be dead_ , he reflected miserably _. I would have felt it...I know I would._ He wondered at the intensity of his feelings for her. _I... **do** care for her_ , he finally admitted to himself silently. _So I've only known her for less than a year... so I've only seen her twice. So she's more than ten years younger than I am. So what? That doesn't change the fact that I found something in her I've never found in any woman before, including Scully._ His lips curved ever so wryly at the notion; he had wondered--when he had first begun to work with Scully--what it would be like to have a more-than-purely-professional relationship with her. Now that he knew her better, the idea of being romantically involved with her was ludicrous to him--as ludicrous, he imagined, as it would be to her. Their friendship had brought them together in a way that romance never could have, and he trusted her more than he had ever trusted anyone before--even his parents.

            _But Nicole..._ He sighed. The young woman he had met in San Diego was frighteningly intelligent and far more vulnerable than her cheerful, competent exterior let on. Objectively, he knew a part--a very small part, he told himself--of the attraction was due to what she could do--or at least, what she had once been able to do. The notion of interacting with one of the subjects of his cases on an intimate level was thrilling; nonetheless, he knew that was hardly the only reason he found himself drawn to her. She was warm and open and completely honest in a way that he found he craved after dealing with the shadowy figures behind innumerable conspiracies for so long. _And beautiful_ , he mused, feeling a rush of desire spread through him. _Let's not forget beautiful...as if I could..._ He could close his eyes and vividly remember the brief hour they had spent in each other's arms last April; he had stared down into her exotic, bizarre emerald eyes as she lay sated in his arms and thought he would drown in them.

            Intellectually, he knew his feelings for Nicole were irrational; what had started out as sympathy for the situation she found herself in as her father was dying had blossomed into empathy after their mental joining--empathy in the most genuine sense of the word. He had thought her every thought, felt the same feelings she did as she felt them, and the two of them had melded together in flesh, mind, and spirit to anchor each other against the turbulent, chaotic mental whirlwind that threatened to sweep away both sanity and all sense of self. _But irrational or not, what I feel for Nicole is **real** ; I won't back away from this just because it's unfamiliar ground that has the power to scare the living daylights out of me--_

            "Here you go, sir, this is your seat." His train of thought was abruptly derailed as a flight attendant led another passenger over to the seat next to him. "Please stow your gear and take a seat; we're going to be taking off very soon."

            Mulder glanced up in annoyance and froze as Krycek grinned down at him. "Almost missed the flight," the younger agent said genially as he stuffed his duffelbag into the overhead compartment and sank into the aisle seat next to him. He had a manila folder tucked under one arm and opened it up after buckling his seat belt; Nicole's picture--taken from her senior-year yearbook at USC in San Diego--stared up from the file inside. "I took a quick look at this woman's file on my way to the airport. Lost her twice before, huh? Maybe third time's the charm."

            Mulder scowled. "This is personal business, not a case," he told the other man coldly. "There's no reason for you to be on this plane."

            "Nicole Alexander, born January 29, 1973, age 21; born San Diego, California. Mother died 1973; father died 1994. Formerly a student at the University of California at San Diego...unless you were talking about some other Nicole on the phone in your office, Mulder, this is definitely a case," Krycek said firmly. "Not personal business."

            "You stay away from her!" Mulder hissed.

            Krycek arched an eyebrow, giving him an innocent look. "Why? Do you have information about her that isn't in her file--information that invalidates the arrest warrant out on her? Is there more about her I should know?" Mulder glared at him, but before he could say anything, the flight attendant at the head of the cabin asked for their attention and launched into her safety spiel about fastened seat belts, flotation devices, and oxygen masks, and Krycek smiled smugly and tucked the file away safely. Five minutes later, the plane began to taxi forward, and as the 747 lifted into the air, Mulder knew his protests were too late.

 

* * *

**Chicago; 3:03 A.M.**

 

            Mulder chafed at Krycek's slowness as the younger agent stood and pulled his bag down from the overhead compartment, then handed Mulder his own luggage. He shoved past Krycek and made his way down the aisle toward the open door, cursing under his breath as a glance over his shoulder showed him that the other man was right behind him.

            They collected their baggage and made their way into the airport; Mulder was acutely conscious of the chipper, helpful expression on Krycek's face as they wended their way past ticket counters and lines of people waiting to board. "I think the taxis are over here," Krycek said blandly, gesturing toward the main entrance. "We can get--"

            Mulder pushed past him toward the man he had spotted holding a sign with 'Mulder' printed in Magic Marker. Krycek clamped his mouth shut and followed with a sigh. Mulder eyed the man as he lowered the hand-made sign.

            "Agent Mulder?"

            Mulder nodded. "You must be Carl Kolchak," he said, shaking the hand the retired reporter held out. The man looked to be in his sixties, with short hair going silver under a battered Panama hat and an old camera--almost antique--slung around his neck on a strap, over the rumpled seersucker jacket he wore. He was stocky but not obese, about the same height as Krycek, with curious eyes and an engaging smile.

            "Who's this?" Kolchak asked curiously, gazing at Krycek. Mulder scowled.

            "Agent Alex Krycek...my current partner," he introduced reluctantly. Kolchak arched a brow, but shrugged.

            "Pleased to meet you. Come on," he said, "I have a car out in the parking lot. There's been another disappearance since we talked; I called from the bookstore where Nicole had been working. When her boss overheard us on the phone, he demanded to know what had happened to her. According to him, he and Nicole were really close. When I told him that Nicole had vanished, he tore off to look for her before I could stop him. He hasn't returned yet."

            "Damn," Mulder spat as they headed out into the warm summer drizzle sifting down from the clouds. Kolchak led them toward his car, a battered 1980 Ford Escort, and unlocked the doors. "Why don't you give me the whole story again on the ride? Start with what Nicole told you."

            Kolchak nodded as he slid behind the steering wheel; Mulder got into the passenger's seat next to him as Krycek slung their bags into the back and got in as Kolchak started the car up. He slammed the rear door shut just as the retired reporter backed out of the parking space at sixty miles an hour and sped off into the night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. For now.

            Consciousness was slow to return, and painful when it came. Nicole opened her eyes, wincing as daggers of light dug at the back of her skull; it took a few seconds for the blurred mass of color around her to sharpen into clarity. She blinked as she felt silk slither along her bare legs and glanced downward.

            Someone had changed her clothes while she was out cold; she now wore a gorgeous golden-orange sari, draped in delicate folds over her body. Her bare arms, hung with slender bangles of silver, gold, and jade, were stretched over her head and held in place with shackles; her feet were likewise chained. _Not **again**!_ she thought darkly. Her face itched under layers of heavy makeup, and she could feel that they had done something to her hair. _What the Hell...?_

            Her eyes widened as she swept the room with her gaze. She had no idea where she was, but it looked like a temple. Candles flickered in wall sconces and candelabra everywhere, and the rich, exotic scent of incense wafted through the air, making her want to sneeze. An altar had been set up against a far wall, with offerings of flowers, food, candles, and coins heaped in front of a statue that made her grimace in disgust. The bronze effigy was tall, multi-armed, with wicked tusks, bulging eyes, and a severed human head in each hand. In front of the altar itself was a low stone slab with a groove carved around the edge. The stone itself was stained rusty with years' worth of sacrifices, and she swallowed hard. At one foot of the altar was a magnificent chair--carved from a dark, fine-grained wood that gleamed with sweet-scented oil, inlaid with jewels and gold and silver filigree--that could only be called a throne because there was no more apt word in the English language. There were several men in red robes prostrating themselves in front of the altar, their shaven heads painted scarlet, their feet bare, chanting a sing-song prayer in a language she didn't understand.

            She pulled on the shackles that bound her with a slow surge of fear sliding through her in a nausea-inducing wave. _I don't like the look of this_ , she thought frantically, the edge of the cuffs digging into the skin of her wrists. The back of her head ached furiously where they had hit her. _I hope Kolchak got away._

            After a moment, one of the men kneeling in front of the altar rose and came toward her, a satisfied smile on his face. His robes were more ornate than those of the others, and she wondered if he was a priest. "I'm glad you've awakened, Ms. Alexander," he said solemnly, his dark, intent eyes fixed on her in a way that made her skin crawl. _That's lust_ , she thought with repugnance, _but not sexual lust. That's something else...something I'm not sure I want to understand._ "We'll begin our services soon, and you're going to play an important part in them. We just have to wait a little longer for the others to arrive." He gestured toward the corner and Nicole went rigid; Saul lay on the floor on a bamboo mat, tied and gagged, a nasty bruise on his forehead.

            "You bastards," she hissed, venom in her voice. Let him go! He's done nothing to you!"

            "I'm afraid that is not possible, Ms. Alexander," the man apologized. "Ravana will not come unless blood is spilled, and a great deal of it. There will be more--much, much more, but you need have no fear for your own safety; Ravana has marked you as his. Like Sita before you, you will be our Lord's bride."

            She spat in his face, unable to do any worse. He smiled, his tongue sliding out to lick her spittle from his lips and chin. "Thank you, my Lady," he chuckled mockingly, and bowed, hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer. Without a second glance, he turned and went back to the altar, lighting more sticks of incense before kneeling again to pray.

            Nicole's eyes flicked to Saul, who was still unconscious, and a faint moan escaped her lips. She pulled fiercely at the chains, but there was no give to them, and she knew she was trapped. _I can’t let them kill Saul!_ she thought desperately. _If Kolchak got away and called the police, then maybe--_ She slumped as she admitted to herself how unlikely the notion was; while she was fairly certain Kolchak had gotten away-- _or_ , she reasoned, _he would be here now, bound and gagged like Saul_ \--even if he managed to convince the police that foul play had occurred, they would never find her. _I don't even know where I am_ , she reflected wretchedly.

            She leaned back against the hard, cold stone wall and shut her eyes, her heartbeat racing like a frightened rabbit's as she waited for the end.

 

* * *

**4:17 A.M.**

 

            They had pried the lock and hasp off the gate with a tire iron, and now Mulder, Krycek, and Kolchak stood in the lot behind the Lakshmi restaurant. Kolchak glanced around warily; very little had changed in twenty years.

            "This the place?" Krycek asked dubiously, shining his flashlight toward the open door that led down into the restaurant's cellar.

            "Yep," Kolchak replied dryly. "This is it." The retired reporter watched as Mulder scanned the small, empty lot behind the restaurant with eyes that missed nothing.

            "I'm going in," Mulder said at last, his flashlight in one hand, his gun in the other. He paused at the top of the stairs to cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Kolchak and Krycek.

            "We should call the police," Krycek said dubiously. "We're trespassing as it is, and if we continue to ignore the proper channels--" He blinked and stopped in mid-sentence as Mulder shot him a black look and started down into the cellar.

            "I don't think you'd get very far with the police," Kolchak said as he headed for the stairs to follow Mulder. "At least, not once they learned I was involved. The Chicago police might believe in junkies, muggers, and rapists, but not in demons, and they don't like me very much." And he, too, disappeared down into the darkness.

            Krycek swore and hurried after the other two men.

            The restaurant's basement was cold, dark, and damp, full of narrow corridors and crates piled high in every room to provide cover for unseen assailants--perfect for an ambush. Kolchak caught sight of the footprints in the dust on the floor--and then a gleam of light caught his eye. He knelt and scooped up the flashlight he had taken from Nicole's pack and tossed to her. The light was still switched on, though its beam was very weak. He turned it off and turned toward the two F.B.I. agents.

            "Nicole's flashlight," he said quietly. A look crossed Mulder's face so quickly Kolchak wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it, a look composed of equal parts of frustration, fear, rage, and alarm.

            "Look at this," Krycek said from a few feet further down the hall, kneeling to pick up something else--a crumpled, discarded rag. Kolchak frowned as Krycek brought it forward--then pulled back as the fumes on the cloth made him cough.

            "Chloroform," Mulder muttered, his voice tight with anxiety.

            "Someone drugged her and took her away," Krycek said. "Do you think they--"

            Dark-clad figures leapt out of the darkness around them. Kolchak yelped and ducked as Mulder stumbled back, the agent's gun going off loudly enough to deafen him. Krycek was down, mobbed underneath a mountain of bodies, and before Kolchak could turn to run--a move that had saved his life countless times when he was younger--he, too, was overwhelmed.

            There was a final shot from Mulder's sidearm and an answering scream before the tide of attackers washed over them all.

* * *

 

            There was a thunder of footsteps and Nicole lifted her head up as a veritable mob of grinning, silk-clad cultists came streaming into the temple room, bearing the limp bodies of a stranger, Kolchak, and--her heart constricted with cold terror--Mulder, all three unconscious. The three men were set down in front of the altar, none too gently, and the priest rose from his place before the statue of Ravana, a satisfied look on his face. "Was there any trouble?" he asked. His smug smile faded a little as his eyes skimmed the group. "Where is Suryas?"

            "Lord--" one of the men murmured. The group parted and a handsome, muscular man stumbled forward, one hand clutching his side. His robes were stained with blood, his eyes glazed, and he shivered in obvious pain. "The men had guns--"

            The priest swore violently, whirling to glare ferociously at Mulder and the stranger with him. "Dogs," he spat, his voice low. "Suryas is--was--perfect, chosen by Ravana to be the vessel for His rebirth. Now--" He marched to the altar and faced it, his whole body rigid. "Our Lord must choose another vessel, one perfect of health and fair of face." He sank to his knees in supplication, and silence thick enough to use for a winter blanket in Alaska flowed over the room.

            Nicole studied the group of cultists, wondering which one the priest would choose as the vessel for Ravana's rebirth. Though most of the men seemed healthy enough, none were--by even the most liberal standards--of better than average looks. _Of course, considering what Ravana Himself is supposed to look like, they're all Adonises in comparison_ , she reflected, glancing at the statue on the altar with a grimace.

            The priest rose abruptly, turning back to his flock; the look on his face was stunned, but he mastered himself with the air of one who is trying desperately to keep up with the demands of his deity and pointed to the dark suit-clad stranger laying on the floor next to Mulder. "That one."

            The other cultists stared at him in shock. "But...but, Lord, he is an outsider, an unbeliever!" one of the men finally dared to gasp.

            "He is healthy and handsome, and it is not your place to question Ravana's wishes!" the priest snarled. The cultists hastened to obey, scrambling to drag the unconscious man to his feet. As she watched, they stripped him to his skin--reluctantly, she admitted that the priest, or his demon Lord, had not made a half-bad choice--then dressed him in the finest robes she had seen yet, the fabric thick with glittering gold thread and gems. They washed the dirt of the cellar from his face, anointed his hands, rubbed scented unguents into his hair--and then seated him gently at the foot of the altar in the magnificent throne.

            "Now," the priest continued, his voice harsh, "that one." And he pointed at Mulder. Nicole felt all the blood in her body drain away, to be replaced with ice water. "He is not to be sacrificed for the ceremony; the other two will be sufficient to raise our Lord. This one will be as Brahma, meat for our Lord to shred once He has wakened." He sneered down at Mulder's prostrate form and gestured toward where Saul lay in the corner, now--as Nicole say, startled--conscious and looking very, very afraid. "Bring him."

            Two of the cultists lifted Saul from where he lay and carried him over to the altar as the priest drew a huge, gleaming dagger from his belt. It curved slightly, tapering to a narrow point, and the bright blade looked sharp enough to shave with. "No!" Nicole begged, watching as the cultists spread Saul's arms and legs wide. The priest cast a look at her over his shoulder.

            "Gag her," he ordered one of his followers, then turned back to the sacrifice.

            She screamed at last as one of the men tore a strip from his robe and came toward her; she flailed and fought as much as the chains allowed her to as he tried to force her mouth open, and finally, another of the cultists had to come over and hold her pinioned against the wall. The first man forced the cloth into her mouth and tied it there, then stepped back; the second man released her, snorting. She whipped her head back and forth, trying to spit the rag out, but it was tied in too firmly.

            The priest lifted the dagger up over his head and began to chant, the sing-song words flowing unintelligibly from his lips. His voice rose in pitch and tone as the words came faster, but below them, Nicole caught a low mumble, a faint, familiar cadence equally untranslatable but familiar nonetheless. Her eyes widened as she realized that it was Saul, praying out loud through his gag.

            Saying the prayer for his death.

            The dagger came down hard, and blood jetted up with the impact, splashing so hard it splattered the ceiling. Saul's old, frail body convulsed and Nicole screamed through her own gag as the priest--still chanting--withdrew the ceremonial dagger and laid it aside, soaking both of his hands in the blood, then walking over to smear the gore across the stranger's face to make a horrendous mask. The other cultists--apparently familiar with this stage of the ceremony--unchained Saul from the altar and dumped his body in a corner--then went over to where Kolchak lay.

            _No!_ Nicole screamed silently. _Not him too!_ Adrenaline flooded her body in sickening amounts, making her dizzy and light-headed; she yanked at her chains again, blind with rage, the shackles on her wrists slicing into her flesh. She pulled again, feeling something shift within her--

            --and without warning, she was free, her hands and ankles unchained, stumbling a few steps forward before coming to a stop, a dumb look on her face. Then her eyes went wide as she realized what had happened. _I went thin! My gift came back! I don't know if it was the blow on the head or if I finally healed, but--_

            The priest had begun to chant again, the blade lifting over his head once more, and she had time to note that Mulder had finally opened his eyes, a groggy look on his face, before fury rushed into her again, overwhelming her confusion and surprise. None of the cultists had noticed yet that she was free, and she tore the gag from her mouth and launched herself at the priest just as he brought the blade down again.

            Her hands closed over the priest's shoulders and made him thin along with her less than a second before the dagger's point would have torn into Kolchak's heart. The cultists erupted, stunned by her escape and by the frantic, futile struggles of their priest as Nicole shoved him forward relentlessly, walking through the altar and into the wall--

            --and letting go.

            The priest had time for a choked gurgle as his flesh melded with the substance of the wall. Part of his face and the hand that held the dagger were the only parts that still showed, and his fingers quivered feebly for a moment, the dagger dropping from his hand; the one eye that was visible rolled upward frantically, then glazed over.

            Nicole whirled, eyes narrowed with white-hot rage, and threw herself at the cultists, shoving one at a time, rendering each one thin with her for a few seconds as she touched them, then letting them go, leaving them embedded in walls, the floor, the very altar itself. A number of them turned and fled, the room emptying swiftly, and in seconds, she was alone with Kolchak, Mulder, the stranger, and Saul's dead body.

            Tears streamed down her face as she became solid again and knelt to untie Kolchak and Mulder. Her body ached, and she felt more tired than she had been in weeks--due, no doubt, to the orgy of slaughter she had committed while thin. Arms and legs and faces stuck out of the walls, and the temple looked like a display of post-modern portrait sculpture. She lifted one hand to swipe at the tears running down her face and sniffled as Mulder sat up, wincing and lifting one hand to gingerly poke at a lump on his forehead. Then his eyes went to a position over her shoulder, and widened.

            "Scully?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Did Skinner tell you to help us with this case? How did you find us?"

            Nicole whirled and stopped dead in her tracks as her father came toward her from the corner where Saul's body had been dumped. Even as she watched, her father's face flickered and was replaced by Saul's, and she shuddered.

            "Nicole..." Kolchak groaned, trying to sit up. "Don't...not your father..."

            Her gaze hardened. "No more," she snarled, hurling herself forward again even as she went thin. " _No more!”_

            And her hands closed around the old man's shoulders, making him thin as she had all the others.

            Her world exploded in a blossom of soundless white light, light that screamed and sang, light that took her to pieces with an eruption of microscopic blades of radiance. She went rigid, feeling power flow through her that she had never felt before, power that she did not recognize or understand, power she could put no name to. The vile black-souled thing in her hands twisted and writhed, howling in agony even as it smoked in her grip. The light flooded into her eyes, changing the very fabric of the universe that she saw, and she smiled ferally as the Rakshasa that she held--the demon-spirit that had invaded Saul's cooling body--came apart like a badly-made toy. It bled away like rain on cobblestones after a thunderstorm and her smile widened--

            --and the fierce, gentle white light within her that smelled of incense and kissed her on the forehead in blessing smiled back.

            "Thank you, Brahma," she whispered as she let go of Saul's body and became solid again. She felt the light leave her and the world returned to normal.

            Warm, strong hands closed over her shoulders and she looked up at Mulder, who stood over her, a concerned look on his face. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking worried.

            "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" she chuckled wearily. "After all, they weren't going to sacrifice me..." She caught sight of Saul's limp body and tears welled up in her eyes. "What am I going to tell Judith?"

            "Shhhhh..." Mulder soothed, pulling her into his arms. "Come on, let's get out of here." Kolchak had climbed unsteadily to his feet and was shaking the stranger in the throne. "We'll call the police."

            The stranger opened his eyes and looked around dazedly, shaking his head--then bolted out of his chair, staring at the clothes the cultists had dressed him in. "What the Hell-- Mulder, is this your idea of a joke?" he blurted.

            "Who is he?" Nicole asked Mulder.

            Mulder grimaced. "Alex Krycek. My...current partner," he grumbled as the man pounced on his clothes, scooping them up. "Scully was reassigned."

            "Oh," Nicole muttered. "That's too bad. I sort of liked her." Mulder snorted.

            "Me too."

            As she watched, Krycek rummaged through the breast pocket of his suit jacket until he found a slip of paper, then turned, regarding her with a dispassionate gaze. "Nicole Alexander?"

            She nodded, and thought she saw a glimpse of triumph flash through his eyes before he spoke again.

            "I have a warrant for your arres--"

            He had not finished the sentence when Kolchak's fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him on his backside. He went down with a grunt and Mulder glowered at his fellow agent even as Nicole pulled back apprehensively. "Stay down or you're going to swallow your own teeth," Kolchak growled pugnaciously. "If any of those pearly whites are real, that is."

            Krycek gaped up at Mulder. "Mulder, are you just going to stand there and let him assault a federal agent?" he snapped.

            Mulder fixed Krycek with a cold stare, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You're lucky he got to you first, Krycek," Mulder spat. "I told you to leave Nicole alone." And he slid an arm around Nicole's shoulders, then shot a glance at Kolchak. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here before all these dead bodies bring more rats running."

            They left Krycek sitting there, a stunned look on his face.

* * *

 

**10:32 P.M.**

 

            Nicole turned over drowsily, snuggling up to Mulder's warm, naked body. She had spent the better part of the day at the police station, answering questions, going over the story she and Mulder and Kolchak had come up with. If they had told the truth--demon lords and evil spirits, not to mention the return of her own paranormal ability--they would have been laughed out of the police station or sent to a mental institution in a straight-jacket. The bodies in the cultists' lair--which, once they had found their way through the tunnels, had proved to be underneath an old, condemned Hindu temple--were the only thing that could not be explained away by the story, and she and Mulder and Kolchak had prudently decided to say that there had been no bodies embedded in walls when they had escaped.

            "They'll find a rational way to explain it away," Kolchak had predicted cynically, after the police had finally released them. "They always do. It beats having to deal with the truth."

            Harder than talking to the police had been going to see Judith. The police had gotten there before her, of course, and the old woman was nearly catatonic with grief. But, like Saul, she was a survivor--first of the camps, and now, of this. Nicole had wept with her as she told the old woman how bravely her husband had faced death, greeting God with the words of his faith on his lips even as he had been murdered. By the time Nicole had left, she knew that Judith had made peace with her husband's death; even so, the visit had left her so shaken and so upset that she had ignored the plate of chocolate-chip cookies that sat on the kitchen table.

            After dark, she and Mulder had gone to supper with Kolchak, and the retired reporter had regaled Mulder with stories from his glory days, stories so wild that they easily matched the cases she recalled from Mulder's memories. _Vampires and robots and swamp monsters, oh my!_ she thought again sleepily, grinning as she shifted under the covers. She lay curled up next to Mulder in bed, a sated smile on her face as he snored faintly. He had rented a suite at a hotel and, once they were alone, had proceeded to show her exactly how he felt about her in long, slow detail.

            She turned over once again, almost completely awake now, and reluctantly admitted to herself that she was not going to be get back to sleep for awhile. _But I don't want to keep tossing and turning and wake Mulder up..._

            Very carefully, she eased out of the bed, tucking the covers back around her lover. His face was at peace in sleep, as innocent and untroubled as a child's, and she smiled down at him. Then she gathered up her clothes, paced quietly into the suite's other room, and shut the door softly behind her. There were a few things about the day that still bothered her-- _as if everything that's happened over the past few days hasn’t bothered me_ , she reflected as she got dressed--and she knew those loose ends were the reason she had been unable to get back to sleep. The police had accepted as authentic the false ID she had showed them, especially when backed up with the word of an F.B.I. agent--but Krycek would certainly have denounced her as a federal fugitive...if they had questioned him. When the police had arrived at the cultists' lair, the agent had been gone, and he had not reappeared since. The idea that he was still out there, possibly waiting for another chance to arrest her, made Nicole's stomach churn with nervous fear.

            The other thought in Nicole's mind was less dangerous, but still worrisome enough to keep her awake. Judith had reassured her that the bookstore would be staying open, after Saul's funeral, and that Nicole would still have her job there--but there was Mulder to consider. After they had made love, while she lay wrapped in his arms, he had asked her to come back to Washington with him, promising her that he would find some way to keep the government's hounds off her trail. _A tempting offer_ , she thought wistfully. _I want to go with him so badly..._

            There was no sound from behind her to alert her to the intrusion, no change in room temperature, no glimpse out of the corner of her eye of something that should not have been there. Nicole was not certain what caused alarm to flare along every nerve; later, she knew only that she knew she had to turn, and turn she did--

            --to see Krycek standing scant inches away, a hypodermic in his hand, the needle slicing through the air toward her shoulder.

            She went thin in less time than it took to think of it, and the needle went through her harmlessly even as she dove down through the floor, arcing down through the fifteen stories between their suite and the ground floor. Krycek's curse echoed in her ears and tears streamed down her face as she realized that it was time to run away again, as she realized that she would not be going back to work at the bookstore tomorrow, as she realized--a sob breaking from her lips--that she would not be going to Washington with Mulder--now, or ever...

 


End file.
